Julian was left out. He had never taken any notice of Mariella, yet he had always been the one upon whom her light gaze had dwelt with a faint difference, as if it meant to dwell. In the old days it had sometimes seemed as if she would have been pleased--really pleased, not just indifferently agreeable as she generally was--if Julian had offered to take her for a beetle-walk. She appeared to have a slight respectful interest in him, and a manner which suggested, though only to a remorseless watcher, that she would have valued his good opinion. It still seemed so. When he was teasing her about her school, her eyes, uncertain yet dwelling, had fallen on him a moment; but now, as formerly, you could detect no affection between them. ‘We wondered if we should meet you,’ said Julian shyly. ‘I’m so glad we did.’ Then they had not completely forgotten. She blessed him for the assurance, which only he would have given. ‘I couldn’t believe it was you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. I did miss you after you went. I thought perhaps Martin might write to me, but he didn’t. How is Martin?’ ‘He’s all right. We don’t see him so much now. His people are back from Africa and he spends most of the holidays with them.’ He smiled and added: ‘I remember Martin was terribly devoted to you. I must tell him I’ve seen you.’ ‘And where’s Roddy?’ ‘Oh, Roddy.... He’s all right. He’s in London. Roddy’s very grown up: he’s having dancing lessons.’ Julian snorted. ‘Does he still draw?’ ‘I don’t know. Should think he’s too lazy.’ Julian had never liked Roddy. ‘Do you still compose, Julian?’ ‘Oh, do you remember that?’ He smiled with pleasure. ‘Of course. The “Stag-Beetles” Dance. And “Spring with the Cuckoo in it.”’ ‘Oh, that rot. Fancy your remembering!’ He looked at her in just the old way, amused but interested, thinking well of her. ‘I thought it was beautiful. Have you written anything lately?’ ‘No. No time. I’ve given it all up. I’ve been working like mad for a scholarship. P’raps I’ll take to it again a bit at Oxford.’ He seemed to have become enthusiastic about it all at once, encouraged by her interest. He had not changed much. ‘And did you get your scholarship?’ ‘Yes. Balliol. I go up next year.’ He was being brief and modest, actually blushing. But Balliol meant nothing to her: she was thinking of his great age. ‘You must be eighteen.’ ‘Yes.’ ‘D’you know, I remember all your birthdays.’ As she said it she almost cried again, it seemed such a confession of long-cherished vain hope and love. He stared at her, ready to be amused, and then, seeing her face, looked away suddenly, as if he half-understood and were astonished, embarrassed, touched. ‘Oh, look at those two,’ he said quickly.